


Death Becomes Me

by AquaWolfGirl



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Ben is Persephone, Ben is a florist, F/M, Hades/Persephone AU, Have a dog to ease the pain of the rest of this story, Mentions of Death, Mentions of PTSD, Mentions of War, Mentions of Wounds/Scars, Past Violence, Pretty flowers and their meanings, Rey is Hades
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-07-04 11:59:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15840858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaWolfGirl/pseuds/AquaWolfGirl
Summary: After being discharged from the army, Ben Solo returns to the city a little quieter, a little softer, and with a newfound appreciation for the little things, and life itself. And what better way to appreciate life than to open a flower shop, a place where new life is found every day?He has a few repeat customers. There's Rose, who loves to take home the flowers that need a little more care, the ones that have the not-so-straight stems. There's Poe, who comes in for fresh flowers for his restaurant. There's Finn, a nurse at the nearby hospital who loves bonsai trees.And then there's her.A Hades/Persephone AU where Rey is Hades, and Ben is Persephone, because as much as I love the ones where Kylo is Hades and Rey is Persephone, you gotta switch it up sometimes, you know?





	1. persephone.

**Author's Note:**

> Another story?!?! How dare I!! But I just loved this one too much to let it sit in my WIP folder, and so here it is. Like Born To Be Yours and Laundro-Matt, I'm not planning on too many chapters for this one (unless the bug bites me) but we'll see. I have no plot in mind, considering I just changed a major element right before publishing, but let's just wing it, shall we?  
> The wonderful and fantastic lilithsaur on Tumblr did art while I was brainstorming (or more like idea vomiting) for this story - it can be found here! http://lilithsaur.tumblr.com/post/176931295943/i-fell-in-love-with-aquawolfgirl-s-concept-this Give it a like and reblog and all that good stuff!  
> A special thank you to Lilith for being such a wonderful friend, and an amazing artist. I adore you so much, and am so glad that we've become closer over this past year. I've been such a huge fan for years now, and I love that I can write this for you. Thank you, darling.

He didn’t want to own a flower shop. When he was younger, he can recall wanting to be an astronaut, or a rock star. His younger self would have stared blankly had someone told him that, twenty years from now, he was going to be working in a flower shop. No, not only working in one. Owning one. And happily, too.

Of course, when he was younger, his mother had plants. There were marigolds in the garden beds of his childhood home, there were small pots of herbs in the kitchen. He was in charge of watering them whenever she went out of town to attend a protest or to help people in need, or to make her speeches, but he never saw the opportunity to water her flowers as anything other than a chore.

Things change, Ben thinks, as he finishes watering a little bonsai tree. Things especially change when one’s been through what he has.

He stops, staring at a little row of potted bonsai trees and trying to remember if he’d watered them. He has a chart in the office, sure, a chalkboard telling him when to water which plants because some are more picky and finicky than others, but he doesn’t feel like walking all the way back there. So he has to rely on his memory.

Eh, another little spritz won’t kill them. Bonsais aren’t orchids, after all, they’re a bit sturdier. They can take a little more water. If nothing else, he’ll have a little more pruning to do. He can deal with that.

He can hear the rain outside, can hear the droplets against the pavement. There’s the slick sound of tires on damp asphalt as taxies and busses and private cars drive by. He probably won’t be getting many customers today, but that’s all right. It gives him some time to prune, to water, to take care of the plants who need a little more nursing. He doesn’t have many, but he has a few.

Ben walks towards one of the back tables, the one he reserves for the plants that have nothing wrong with them, not really, but are perhaps a bit less bright or less straight-stemmed as the rest. Those with some scarred leaves, those with some crooked stems, those that are just a bit smaller – and not in a delicate, adorable way. Some with colors that aren’t so vibrant, and those with colors that bleed into each other in, arguably, unappealing ways.

He likes these plants. He’s glad that he has a few customers who make bee-lines for this table.

The little bell on the door to his shop dings cheerily, and Ben looks up from the table to see a small figure wrapped up in a mustard-colored rain jacket, water droplets flying from the hood as she pulls it back.

“I was wondering when you were going to come in again,” he says, watching as Rose smiles and starts to look at the bouquets of roses he has near the door for those who fucked up their love life and are looking to say ‘sorry’. It would be funny to watch them look around the shop, hilarious to see them lost in petals and leaves and stems and vines, but he’s not that cruel.

“Couldn’t stay away,” the short Asian woman says, beaming as she makes her way through the aisles of cut flowers towards him. “Have any new ones?”

“This little guy’s ugly, but he’s happy,” Ben explains, looking back to a yellow and purple orchid, the colors perhaps a bit too muddy for some of his part particular customers.

The rain continues to come down outside as Rose explores his wares. She’s always liked the awkward ones, the ones with the odd-looking stems, the ones with the weirdly-shaped leaves and petals, the ones that require a little more care. He can hear the rain come down harder on the pavement and all its cracks, the air in the shop feeling more damp than usual as he watches her stroke the petals of the orchid he suggested.

“You’re just a little weirdly colored, aren’t you?” she asks, examining the stem and the petals to make sure it’s healthy. For someone who came into his shop a year ago and claimed to know nothing about plants, she’s learned an awful lot. Ben smiles to himself as he makes his way around the shop, watering and spritzing and checking for new leaves and new petals.

“It’s growing just fine, it’s just not that pretty,” Ben mutters, checking on a Bird of Paradise reserved for an elder woman who’s going to pick it up on Friday. “Think you can give it a good home?”

“It would be my fifth orchid,” Rose explains. She looks over her shoulder, her hair even curlier from the humidity, the edges that flip up normally even more wild. He’s always wondered whether she styled it that way, or whether it just stayed like that. Whatever the case, it suits her.

“The more the merrier,” Ben replies, throwing a soft smile her way before he hears the shop door ding again. A slightly nervous-looking man stumbles through, his eyes widening at the selection of flowers before him.

It’s easy to guess. “Anniversary or birthday?” Ben calls. The customer startles a bit before offering a sheepish smile.

“Anniversary.”

Ben sets the small spritzer in the pocket of his leather apron, and the little watering can on one of the wooden tables. “Tell me a bit about them?”

“Lilies. He likes lilies.”

“Right this way.”

-

Not many people ask him why he got into flowers. Even when they do ask him, there are few he’ll confess the true answer to.

Not many people ask him why his face is scarred, either. He’s not sure he’ll ever tell the truth for that one.

Hux, to his knowledge, is still on base. So is Phasma. He hasn’t heard much about them, so he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone much. By his guess, both have risen in ranks, by now. Hux was a good leader, even if he barely got in on the action. He had the capability of a general. Someone tactical. Someone strategical.

Snoke … Snoke he’s seen in the news. Giving updates. Attending press conferences. His pale, wrinkled face looking even more pallid when next to the dark fabric of the army’s uniform. He can only stand listening to so many words before he shuts the TV off or closes the window.

He’s grateful the man doesn’t come on the radio, much less the soft indie stations that Ben plays in the flower shop. Perhaps it’s a bit typical, playing the gentle acoustic music in a flower shop, but he much prefers it to some of the rock songs he used to enjoy.

The bass and crashing cymbals are little too hard, now, reminding him of … of things he’d rather not remember.

He’s putting the final touches on a custom bouquet, bending down below the counter to see if he has a ribbon to tie around the vase that would either match, or at least compliment, the flowers inside. They’re mainly white daffodils, a bouquet for someone ailing, someone in the hospital – someone, who, as said gently over the phone, may not make it. Perhaps white, or an orange – but no, the orange would be too bright, then, not relaxing or peaceful, but annoying … does he have any of that deep blue ribbon left? He thought he put a note up in the office to order more, but he can’t remember, not exactly…

The door dings cheerily, a stark contrast to the heavy sound of rain falling outside. Ben looks up just a little bit, over the resin-coated wood of the counter, expecting some harried spouse or partner, expecting to ask what they’re looking for, but instead he sees **_her._**

The black umbrella closes with a gentle rustle, before she leans it against the door. The dog at her side shakes a little, water droplets falling from the Rotweiler’s shining coat.

The girl and the dog.

“Good afternoon.” He doesn’t force himself to be cheery like he does the rest of the customers.

“Wet out there, isn’t it?” she asks.

The black of her trench coat … dress … thing … is slicked with water, little rivulets trailing down the water-repellant fabric. Her hair, as it always is, is pulled back halfway, letting her freckles take the stage. For someone who always wears black, he thought, the third time she walked into his shop, she had to get at least some sun to get so many freckles across her nose and cheeks.

He can hear the gentle breathing of the Rotweiler as she walks with him through the shop, observing the few new wares Ben got in from the week before. A few new orchids, some fresh peonies from Alaska. Beautiful, frilly things, a deep and dark violet. Her slender fingers brush against the petals as Ben watches, the dog standing close to her side, as always.

“Can I help you find anything?” He already knows her answer.

“Just looking.”

Heels, he thinks. Even in the rain. He can hear the gentle clicking and clacking of the black cigarette heels on the concrete floor of the shop. The cooler weather apparently calls for black leggings, but he can see the tops of her feet, can see that they were also victim to the rain, her skin a bit paler than usual from the chill.

He doesn’t know her name. She always pays with cash. No matter what she gets, no matter how expensive the bouquet she requests, it’s always cash, pulled from a slim black wallet with perfectly manicured fingers, nails as black as the patent leather Louboutins she wears.

He returns to looking for a ribbon, emerging with a shining satin navy roll and reaching for the shears he keeps specifically for fabric. He can hear the gentle click of her dog’s nails on the concrete, the harsher click of her heels, and the swishing sound of her trench coat dress as she walks around the shop.

“Anything new?”

“Peonies,” Ben calls, cutting the ribbon neatly before grabbing the little glue bottle and squeezing a bead out. He quickly runs the edge of the ribbon through it, ensuring that it won’t fray in transport before wiping the excess off and hanging it up to dry for a moment. “From Alaska. Those purple ones.”

“They’re lovely.”

“They’re pricy,” he retorts, even though he knows it isn’t a problem.

“That’s not a problem.”

I know, he wants to say, but he doesn’t instead watching as her pup sniffs at a low-hanging vine, curious.

He’d asked what the dog’s name was, once. The woman replied that their name was Cerberus. He wanted to ask, wanted to wonder why she said ‘they’ instead of a singular pronoun, but times are changing, and he guesses the same applies to pets, for some people. He’s not one to assume or judge, though.

“No,” the woman says gently, sweetly, when the dog looks a little too intently at a pale yellow daffodil. “I’ll feed you when we go home.”

Ben smiles to himself as he grabs the now-dried ribbon from the rod he’d hung it from, slipping it around the slender neck of the vase and tying it in a pretty little bow. He’ll keep it in the fridge – it was supposed to be picked up that day, but the son of the poor woman decided to pick it up the next morning, instead. No problem. They usually hold up fairly well overnight.

“Who’s that for?”

“Someone in the hospital,” Ben explains, examining the flowers one last time for any bruises he may have missed. “Special request. Had to order them special.”

“Daffodils aren’t blooming, yet.”

“Exactly. Pricey, but the son insisted,” Ben mutters, his fingers stroking the gentle grooves of the petals.

He’s not unaware that his bouquets have been in hospital rooms, those of the truly ill. He just has to hope that perhaps they brought some measure of peace and joy before … before …

“She’ll see them,” the woman says. “Before she goes. She’ll adore them. She loves daffodils.”

“Do you know her?” Ben asks, looking up, seeing those golden-amber eyes framed by dark lashes. Her brunette hair is dry thanks to the umbrella, but a strand by her ear has curled. She didn’t open her umbrella in time, it seems, the strand a little darker than the rest and sticking to her freckled cheek.

“Somewhat,” she says. “Could I have two of those peonies?”

He doesn’t ask how she not only knew that the woman loves daffodils. He doesn’t ask how she knew that the woman would see them. He doesn’t ask how she knew the woman would pass.

He just gives her the two peonies, watching as she goes. The door to the shop opens, and the thundering of the rain against the pavement seems so much louder, now. The umbrella unfolds with that gentle rustle, and the dog leads first, seemingly eager to enjoy the rain against his fur again. The woman goes with him, clutching the peonies close to her chest, wrapped in the thin brown paper and black bow he always ties it with.

At least, he always uses black for her.


	2. hades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mentions of examples of tragedy (car crashes, plane crashes, etc). Not graphic in the slightest and only mentioned, but figured that it's worth a warning since I know how anxious I get thinking about those things.
> 
> Also mentions of death. Because Rey is Hades. So ... yeah. 
> 
> A little less than my typical word count for this story, but eh - I'm just excited I wrote enough to consider it a chapter!

He reeks of death.

It’s one of the reasons she finds herself drawn to his shop. For a man who surrounds himself with life, he radiates death like a space heater.

There are those who are similar. Oh, yes, there are plenty of those who are similar. She’s not unfamiliar with the stench of death. No, if anything, she is perhaps the most familiar in the entire universe.

“No,” Rey says gently as Cerberus sniffs at a dropped McDonald’s bag, the brown paper soggy with grease and rainwater. “What did I say about feeding you at home?”

The pup huffs before they continue on, one of their heads turned back for a brief moment, dark eyes focused on the brown paper before they trot forward again.

The shadow of a rundown and vacant apartment building is just fine for her needs. Almost everything is dark, now, with the storm still coming down. Zeus must be angry about something. He’s always angry about something, it seems. The group chat of the gods hasn’t blown up, though, so it can’t be anything too distressing.

A duck into the alleyway has the woman and her dog surrounded in shadow. Her heels click on the pavement before they start to clack on black marble, and the chill of the Underworld surrounds her as she steps through the shadows into her realm.

“Yes, yes, I know.” She reaches down and unclips the leash from all three black leather collars of the Underworld’s guard dog, watching them as they race through the palace towards the kitchen where their food waits. She wants to roll her eyes, smirking as she hangs the leash up, hearing the click of dog nails on the marble floors.

The flowers she bought last week are already dried up, the petals a crumbling mess on the ebony tabletop. Well, she’s never really been good at keeping things alive.

The vase with the dead flowers is grabbed by slender, black-nailed hands, the sound of stilettos against stone echoing through the large palace. A labyrinth to strangers, it’s been home to Hades since the universe began, and so she knows its halls better than anyone – living, or dead.

Indoor plumbing was a welcome addition, though, once enough plumbers arrived in the Underworld to install and do repair work.

Maybe it’s the water, Rey thinks, as she removes the dried flowers and dumps the old water. Death permeates everything around her. She wouldn’t be surprised if it permeated the water, too. She doesn’t think the water’s coming from any of the rivers, she made damn sure that the engineers took it from some underground spring and not her rivers. She’ll have to double check, check with Daedalus, their lead civil engineer, on that.

The darker flowers mean less teasing from the other gods. Purples and dark blues are accepted, but gods forbid Hades like yellow daisies, Rey thinks bitterly as she picks up the vase and makes her way back to the main foyer. Sorry that her preferences are different from previous incarnations of the God of Death.

The petals on the outside of the flower’s bloom are already dying at the edges, the frills already becoming brown and crunchy. She sighs, staring at the two blooms in frustration.

She could ask him. That’s what he’s there for. He owns a flower shop, for fuck’s sake, he knows how to make flowers last.

But does he know how to make flowers last in the realm of the dead?

The foolish, still-human, still-hopeful part of her tells her it’s at least worth a shot. The rest of her tells her it’s not worth the time and energy.

-

There are others like him. And there are those who are unlike him.

After almost a century of holding the title of Hades, she is starting to recognize the differing smells of Death. Some knowledge is transferred between incarnations, while the rest has to be relearned. She knew the way to the bathroom before she knew how to distinguish between a murderer and someone who’s simply had their share of misfortune.

Murderers smell like rotting and burning and acid. Like burning plastic. Like sour food. Like rotten garlic. It’s a horrible smell, really, and she is glad that she does not judge, for she can always tell when Minos and Rhadamanthus and Aeacus have faced a murderer. It permeates their robes. It sinks into their skin. It lingers on their breath and in their hair.

Those who have faced misfortune smell like burning sandalwood. There’s still that burn, that lingering charred smell, but it is sweeter. Gentler. Earthier.

They are those who have survived. The children who were in the backseat, where the impact was less. Those who knew the quickest route out of a burning building. Those who didn’t make the flight. The orphans. The parents who got the calls late at night.

Those who were left behind while the rest came to her.

She can smell them on the streets, sometimes. Can smell the sandalwood on in the barista behind the counter at one of her favorite coffee shops. Can smell it on the girl in the mustard-colored jacket who’s sometimes in the flower shop the same time she is.

And then there are those like him.

The ones who smell of cigarette smoke, of sweet bourbon and whiskey, of sun.

The smell has changed, over the millennia. The soldiers of days long, long past smell of sharp metal and burning leather. The soldiers of days long past smell like gunpowder. The soldiers of days not-so-long past, but still past, smell like … smell like …

Sea salt. And sweat. And blood. And gunpowder, still.

The new ones don’t smell like gunpowder, anymore. They smell more like the harsh smell of cigarette smoke they use to combat the effects of combat. Of the liquor they drown their guilt in. Of the sun of the land they are stationed on, of the ship they once looked out towards the sea on.

He smells like all of that.

He smells like all of that, and the flowers he surrounds himself with.

She can guess pasts, based on the smell. She can guess he is a soldier. And she can guess that he’s lost, because of the sandalwood that lingers on his skin.

But she can’t know who. And she can’t know when. And she can’t know why.

Or, at least, she can’t know without asking him himself.

One of the peonies is given a place of honor by her bedside. The bloom’s outer petals are now threatening to fall as she crawls from the deep, in-ground bath some self-indulgent incarnation of Hades had built out of marble and gold. Cerberus has left to guard the gates once more, but his fur lingers on the silk of her comforter. The chill of the Underworld doesn’t bother her much, but she reaches for a plush black robe anyway, her gaze on the flower as one of the petals finally succumbs and falls to the marble top of her bedside table.

She doesn’t know why she expected anything different.

-

“You’re pining.”

“The God of Death does not pine.”

Aphrodite, an older goddess who has been the goddess of love since before Rey became Hades, sips on her coffee as they stare out across the glassy lake of Central Park. A beautiful brunette woman, Rey admires her and the white coat she wears, ever elegant and ever fashionable.

“The new Goddess of Death can pine,” Aphrodite replies, humming as she cradles her cup with slender, bare hands. For someone so sweet, her smirk is absolutely sinful. “And she does.”

“Stop it.”

The Goddess of Love is not too much older than she is, visually, but her history in this role is far longer. A queen of days past, she acts as though this worn iron bench is her throne, sitting up with poise and grace. Once a queen in life, always a queen, Rey supposes, watching the goddess carefully.

“Every Hades has had a Persephone,” Aphrodite says as she lifts her coffee cup to her plush, pink lips. “It’s tradition.” A dark brow is raised, and the smirk returns.

“And is it tradition for each Aphrodite to cheat on her husband with the god of war?” Rey mutters, taking a sip of her peppermint hot chocolate, made with the darkest chocolate available. Children run by. Their laughter echoes through the trees. The sound of paddles sluicing into water becomes a continuous rhythm. She can smell sandalwood nearby, but she can’t determine its direction.

Aphrodite turns her head, the dark brown of her hair curling against the pure white faux fur collar of her coat. “There are some stories that need no repeating. That is one of them. That lesson’s been learned by those before me.”

“Mhm,” Rey hums, taking another sip of the hot chocolate, looking out over the lake. It’s a dreary day, and a bit chilly for April, but it isn’t raining, and so she’ll take it. Zeus may not be happy, but at least he isn’t throwing a fit about something. She’s not going to pray for it, because that means rumors will spread from one god to another, but she’s hoping for another Zeus in the next few years. This one causes storms much too often.

“… it’s not a shameful thing, you know, to want for love.”

“I don’t want for love,” Rey protests. “I’m just fine on my own.”

The position of Hades comes with some knowledge, some wisdom that is applicable to the job that she must take upon her slender shoulders. Other bits of knowledge come with experience, however, and she knows what Aphrodite is thinking as the old queen stares at her.

“I’m just fine on my own,” she repeats, ignoring the goddess's eyes on her, the color of melted chocolate and caramel. Aphrodite is warm. Aphrodite has always been warm. That’s why she’s the goddess of love, of passion, of affection, of softer things and pretty things.

Rey is the goddess of Death.

Death cannot be soft, even as much as she may try to make it for some.

They sit in silence for a while. Out of the corner of her eye, Rey watches the Goddess of Love. There’s a sweetness to her, even though the smell of burning sandalwood is prominent. Roses and lily of the valley and honey can’t disguise the scent of tragedy, no matter how many spritzes the goddess wears. But just like the man in the flower shop, Rey doesn’t know the why or the who. She can only guess the when from the time the goddess became … well, a goddess.

Some bell tower of some church starts to ring. Her hot chocolate’s getting cold. She wonders if it’s because of how long they’ve been sitting there, or because her hands are colder than any other god or goddess’s.

“I have to go.”

Aphrodite says nothing as Rey stands, pulling an ancient drachma from the pocket of her black trench coat. The former queen just holds a slender hand up, her smile as soft as the feelings she has rule over.

“It was my treat,” she offers. There are smile lines at the corners of her eyes, now, that Rey didn’t notice before. Age. Wisdom in things that Rey could never hope to achieve.

She is wise in other things, Rey thinks, as she walks towards the Met, where some of the best and darkest shadows linger in between galleries. Just not love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can figure out who Aphrodite is, I'd be very impressed!


	3. persephone & hades.

It’s raining again the next time she comes in. This time, it’s just sprinkling. It’s barely enough to create satisfying puddles. There’s no need for an umbrella, but her pup wears a sort of raincoat to cover his slick fur. It swishes as he walks into the shop, bee-lining for the water bowl Ben leaves out for fellow furry friends.

“Anything new today?”

Her voice is soft like rose petals as she unhooks the leash from the dog’s leather collar. Wet slurping noises intermingle with the hum of the fans and the humidifiers. Ben says nothing about the lack of leash. The dog is well-behaved, sniffing at flowers but never biting at stems or munching on petals.

“We have some new peach-colored roses. They were ordered for a wedding, but it got called off. Something about the bride’s sister,” Ben explains. The mother was obviously trying to do damage control when she called, sounding more exasperated than panicked. Ben didn’t ask. It’s not his place. He’s just the florist.

The woman nods, saying nothing more as she continues to weave her way through the labyrinth of blooms. She’s not wearing her raincoat today. The cigarette heels have stayed, but now she wears black slacks and a pretty black lace blouse, a satin bow tied around her slender neck.

He continues to work on an anniversary arrangement. The wife likes lilies and peonies, the husband had said. No roses, no baby’s breath. That’s just fine with him. Lots of men go for the default ‘romantic bouquets’, but this husband’s voice was slow and soft, his laugh deep and throaty. An older couple, no doubt.

“Excuse me?”

Ben looks up. The woman is standing on the other side of the counter, and he stares at her, caught in the warmth of her brown eyes for a moment.

“Yes?” he asks. It comes a few heartbeats later than it should have.

In her hands is a black pot, filled with yellow kalanchoe flowers. Some are budding, while some still remain in their pale green casing. The big, shiny green leaves of the plant almost overwhelm the delicate little flowers, but it’s a pretty plant all the same.

“Do these last long?” she asks, setting the little pot down on the wooden counter.

“Yes. They’re like a succulent, they last a while,” Ben replies, pushing the arrangement aside to take a look at the little plant she’s chosen. “They’re very low maintenance. Maybe an hour or two of direct sunlight, and then shade the rest of the time. Water once a week. You can trim the dead flowers if there are any, but that’s just for looks.”

“What are they called?” Her perfectly manicured fingers stroke the flowers, shiny patent-leather black nails contrasting with the bright canary yellow of the petals.

“This is a kalanchoe,” Ben explains, sliding the pot towards him so that he can examine the leaves and the flowers more carefully. “It should last you a few seasons if you take care of it. I have prettier pots in the back right, if you want to put it in something other than plastic.”

The woman looks over her shoulder, and he’s given a perfect view of her pert little nose. He can hear the dog’s tags jingling somewhere over to the left, the sound of a long, pink tongue slurping up more water.

For someone who comes into the shop often, often enough that he’d consider her a regular, she looks a little lost when it comes to buying something that comes in a pot.

“Here,” Ben offers, coming around the other side of the counter and walking towards the pots display. His ribbon-cutting scissors bump against his hip through the leather apron he’s wearing. The music is low, some gentle guitar plucking in the background as he approaches the shelving unit with all of the pots.

He doesn’t carry big outdoor ones. Home Depot and Lowes and all of the other places can handle those. The biggest he has could probably hold a small tree, like the little lemon and orange ones he has. The rest are smaller, perfect for the orchids or bonsais or succulents most people buy from him.

There’s a black ceramic one, the shine on it matching the patent-leather look of her nails. “This one may be a bit too big, but you can always put more soil,” he explains, before he reaches for another one. This one is also black, but with a marbled surface. Marble is very in, apparently, and has been for a while. He keeps on ordering these ‘marble’ pots, and they keep on flying out the door. “This one would be the right size, if you like the pattern.”

He turns and notices that she’s brought the plant with her, her gaze on the two pots in his hands. She holds her find like a baby, cradling it in her arms as she looks at the two pots. She hesitates for a moment, before she reaches out and taps her finger against the marble one. “That one, please.”

“Of course. Do you want me to pot it for you, or would you rather do it yourself?”

“Would you mind? I have a black thumb, it seems,” she replies.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over her soft British accent. It fits with the rest of her, with the black heels and the perfect black eyeliner and the way she radiates dark elegance. Ben nods, setting the other pot back on the shelf before making his way to the front. She follows, cradling her new plant, and sets it down on the counter per his instruction.

“I seem to kill everything I touch,” she says forlornly as he bends behind the counter, looking at the various buckets of soil he keeps underneath of it. Finding a proper one for the plant, he pulls it out and sticks it on top of the counter, and grabs a scooper from its place on the wall behind him.

“You’ve always picked the ones that don’t last long,” Ben explains, scooping some fresh soil into the pot.

“When did you serve?”

The metal scoop clanks noisily against the ceramic pot, and Ben curses under his breath, checking to see that he didn’t chip it. It seems to be okay, but his pulse definitely isn’t, thumping wildly as he looks up towards the woman.

“How did you know I-?” It comes out gruffer, harder than he’d intended.

She doesn’t react to his chance in tone, at least not visually. “Just a feeling,” she replies vaguely, her perfect little hands folded on the dark wood of the counter.

He stares at her for a moment, and though it’s possible that it’s a trick of light, he swears that her eyes turn golden for a moment. Warm, liquid gold, bright and beautiful. He blinks, and they are the gorgeous amber brown again, the same he’s looked into every time she’s come in to the shop.

“… came back a few years ago,” he explains, leaving out the details as he looks down and pats the soil down to avoid her gaze.

“Thank you. For your service.”

When he looks back up at her, there is warmth in her eyes and in her face. Not like the warm gold he saw (thinks he saw?) before, but something more gentle. Something sweeter, and sadder. It’s almost understanding, and despite all he’s done and all he’s been through, there’s a small part of him that’s tempted to just lay it all out for her, chest tight and shoulders shaking.

He doesn’t, though. He can’t bring himself to say anything as he fills the pot with soil, and then settles her new plant in. He checks the draining holes, makes sure that there’s no paper or stickers over top, and then shows her just how much to water it. She watches with furrowed brows, as though this is a life and death situation, and she has to follow each step exactly. One hand remains on the counter, the other stroking the pup who’s come up to join his owner. Ben can’t help but smile at the way the dog’s tongue lolls a little when she scratches just behind his right eat, and he falters on explaining how much sun the plant should get before he remembers where he was in his little speech.

“It’s pretty easy to take care of. You really have to try for it to die,” he explains, wrapping the pot in some newspaper so that it won’t break if she knocks against someone or something on the underground train. He puts it in a paper bag for her, too, taking a little extra time to tie the handles together with a bit of black ribbon. Though she insists it isn’t necessary, there’s something to her smile that tells him she appreciates the gesture. And so he does it anyway, clipping the ends of the ribbon so that it doesn’t fray.

“I’ll see you next week?” The words spill from his lips before he can stop them, and he watches as she stops in her tracks, her fingers still holding the leash clip open before she hooks it around the gold loop in the dog’s collar, letting it go with a ‘click’.

“Yes,” she replies, and her smile is like sunshine as the dog starts towards the door. “Next week.”

“If you need any help, you know where I am.”

The rain’s almost finished, now. Perhaps a light sprinkle. He watches as she steps out onto the street, turning right as she always does. Within seconds, she and her dog are gone.

*

It was almost better just to buy the single blooms. Sure, they’re more expensive because she has expensive taste, but at least she knew they wouldn’t last long.

She tried with this one, she really did. She didn’t water it often. Whenever she absolutely had to go up to the surface, she brought the plant with her, letting it get some sunshine. But on the fourth day, there are a handful of dead blooms barely hanging onto their stem. By the fifth day, the once shiny and full green leaves are turning brown and crispy, and by the sixth, the poor thing is almost as dead as the souls in her realm.

There is a part of her that’s tempted to scoop it up into her arms and take it back to him. To ask what she’s doing wrong, to ask if there is anything she can do to save this life, as insignificant as it may be to the world. It’s significant to her, or at least it was.

The more significant part of her is prideful, though, as almost all of the gods and their incarnations are, and she picks up the pot and travels to the home of a recent widow. She’d seen the husband’s soul earlier in the week, the man hating to leave his wife but glad to be no longer in pain. The wife seems to have the same philosophy, and Rey lingers in the shadows of a cluster of palm trees, feeling the warm Hawaiian breeze against her skin. The elderly woman sweeps her porch with slow, short strokes, before she abandons the broom against one of the wooden posts and goes inside.

Rey walks forward, setting the plant down upon the porch step. Judging by the happy and bright blooms surrounding the house, it will have a happy home here. Before her eyes, it seems to perk up, the yellow blooms brightening and the leaves regaining some of their shine.

Rey huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at the plant. “You don’t have to be so obviously rude about it,” she snaps, before the creak of a screen door tells her it’s time to leave. The shadow that makes up her robe melts into the shadow of a palm tree, and she can feel the cool wind of the Underworld against her feet. The gentle Hawaiian breeze still tickles her cheeks as she watches the elderly woman come out and stare at the pot in confusion. Once the plant is safely in her wrinkled but kind hands, Rey turns, shivering as she leaves the sun for shadow, the chill sinking into her bones as she returns to where she belongs.


	4. persephone.

There are too many sounds that are similar. The beeping of a backing up truck warns him of the metallic booms that are coming. He knows when trash day is, and tries to get to the shop early so he avoids the loud sound of a dumpster being turned upside down. Sometimes transformers blow, it’s not uncommon, and he turns into a shaking, sweaty mess every damn time.

He’s not sure what the sound he just heard was, but he most certainly doesn’t like the way it bounces around in his skull, Finn’s shout of alarm ringing in his ears…

He’s sweating as he scrolls through social media. Yesterday. Finn posted yesterday, a picture of himself with Poe at some restaurant. Date night. He’s fine. They’re both fine. They’re both fine and happy and healthy. They’re both fine. They’re both alive.

Finn’s smiling face and the time stamp help calm his heart a little, but it doesn’t stop the shaking or the sweat pouring out of his skin. It’s not the worst attack he’s had by far, no, but it’s not pleasant. He’ll need to shower, he’ll need to change the sheets… He needs to drink water, if not something stronger. Something to burn the back of his throat and remind him that he’s here, they’re here, they’re okay, he’s okay…

A cold shower just makes him shiver even more. Scalding’s better, his pale skin turning bright pink beneath the spray. He’s glad for his building’s water pressure, letting the heat pound against his shoulders. His knees still feel weak, but if he sits down he knows he won’t get up for hours. And so he just braces his hands against the wall instead, before bowing his head to the cool, hard tile.

Black-eyed susans have thirteen to fifteen petals, usually. One. Two. Three. Four. Five…

There wasn’t much yellow over there. Some, sure, in the form of caution signs, but the bright and vivid yellow of the black-eyed susan in his mind distracts from the grey and brown of his memories. He tries to steady his breathing, tries to focus on the petals falling from the flower behind his eyes. Six, seven, eight…

He would call Finn, or Poe, just to double check, but it’s late. It’s so very late, the night still black and inky, or as much as it can be in the city. He’s not sure how long he stands under the pressure of the shower before he pulls himself from the wall, grabbing a towel that’s seen better days but he always forgets to get more.

He could water the plants. That’s another way of getting his heartrate back to normal and forcing his hand to be steady as he holds the small watering can, but he’s too tired, now. The warmth has seeped into his bones, calming the shivers, but even as he knows he should go to bed, he stands in the middle of his room. There’s a dark spot of stale sweat staining his sheets. He should change them…

He’ll pick up the towel in the morning, he decides, as he grabs the topsheet and tugs it over the damp spot. His skin is still damp, the blanket sticking to him a bit as he crawls into bed. 4 am, just about. He has to be up in two hours to get to the shop, to trim all the flowers, to water them and start on making those arrangements for the bridal shower on Saturday…

A shiver wracks him again, the cool air of the AC hitting the back of his neck, still wet.

One petal. Two petals. Three petals…

-

It’s monotonous in the best way, trimming flowers. It’s something he can really focus on, making sure the cut is just right so that they drink up the water and stay alive for as long as possible. He’s just starting to cut the peach-colored roses when she walks in, this time without her pup.

The weather is warmer, but she’s still relatively covered. The trenchcoat she typically wears is open, revealing some black dress that dips a little lower than the blouses he’s seen her wear before. The freckles on her cheeks apparently go lower, and he wants to smack himself for making that observation as she makes a beeline for the wall of flowers, her fingers brushing up against some pale pink roses.

He wants to ask about her potted plant, wants to see how it’s going, if she needs any help, if she needs new soil or maybe a watering can, but he can’t make his mouth move. His tongue feels like cement in his mouth, and when he opens his lips and tries to make it work behind his teeth, nothing comes out. No sound at all.

He’s saved from the awkwardness when he sees Rose through the window. The door dings cheerily as she steps inside, and he notices her white t-shirt is stained with grease and grime.

“Why don’t you just wear black shirts?” he asks, watching as she looks down at the mess on the cotton.

“Because black shirts are your thing,” Rose explains, grinning back up at him. He watches that grin plummet, though, and within seconds she’s at the counter. “Ben, you look awful…”

“Thanks.” It’s sarcastic as he continues to snip the roses, grabbing a small knife to carve the thorns off.

“Did you have another rough night?” The young woman is already shrugging off her small backpack, rummaging in the mustard-colored bucket bag for something. “I think I have a chocolate bar in here somewhere-“

“I’m fine, Rose, really, save your chocolate,” he insists. “Yeah, rough night, but it’s okay.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that the woman in black has stopped, her fingers continuing to stroke the petals of one red rose.

“That’s what I get for living in the city,” he says, cutting off another few thorns and sweeping them into a green, compostable bag like he does all of his scraps. “If I lived in the country or near the woods, I’d get hunters shooting their guns or something.”

“Suburbs?” Rose offers, looking up at him in earnest.

“I like it here.” He does. He likes Maz, his landlady. He likes that Poe and Finn are close. He likes having the shop here, because it means Rose, and it means the woman in black who’s now moved on to looking at some bonsai trees. It means he doesn’t feel so alone.

“Can you close the shop a little early? Get some sleep? Crash in the back during lunch? I can bring you a blanket?”

“I’m fine, Rose.” He doesn’t mean to sound so exasperated. Thankfully, Rose is the kind of person who understands much more than she lets on. And so she reaches over and squeezes his hand, as calloused and nicked and green-stained as it is, and holds it for just a moment. He stares down, noticing how small her fingers are compared to his, before she lets go.

“I need some new soil, one of the older orchids isn’t happy,” she says.

Soil. He can do soil, he thinks, as he nods and walks around the counter to the shelf where he keeps the samples. “What are you using now?”

-

Rose is there for a half hour, and leaves with a small sample bag of soil, and a dying daisy. She said something about wanting to give it a good home. There’s no saving it, Ben knows, seeing the browned edges and the wilting leaves, but if she wants to take it home with her, then he’ll let her. The older flowers are typically half price, but he gives it to her for free, watching as she carries her elderly friend home. The door dings as it closes behind her.

“I’m sorry about that,” Ben says as he looks towards the woman in black. Her hair’s down today, a little wavy and a little wild, something different from the sleek, half-pulled-back look she normally has.

“That’s okay.” She’s not used to it either, it seems. She reaches up to tuck a lock behind her ear, her nails a matte black this time. “Anything new? I want some flowers for my hallway.”

“I got some yellow lilies in.” He walks around the counter and heads towards the back wall. “And some red roses.” If he knows her, she’s going to go for the red roses. She likes the darker colors, the less saturated. There are plenty of people who enjoy the bright daisies and the vibrant lilies, but she’s not one of them. She’s always drawn to the dark, the purples and the deep reds.

He’s walking towards the roses when he turns, seeing she’s stopped on some pale purple hyacinth. Her eyes are wide, and she leans in, smelling them. She even reaches a delicate hand up, cradling the buds and bringing them closer to her pert nose.

“Those are new, too. Had extra left over from a special order,” Ben explains.

“They smell so sweet,” she says, her voice breathy and gentle as she continues to sniff them.

“If you want them, you can have them. I’m getting a new order in tomorrow and need the space.”

The woman turns to him, and yet again he swears that he sees her eyes flash a brilliant gold. Not amber, not brown, no, gold. “How much?”

“You can just take them.”

It’s like he told a child they can have a free piece of candy. All of the sudden, despite the black fabric covering her body, she seems to shine like the sun itself. Her lips split into a smile so wide that her nose crinkles, freckles coming together, and her eyes squint ever so slightly. It’s ridiculously pretty, prettier than any flower he’s ever seen, and he finds himself enchanted by her as she scoops a few of the blooms into her arms.

“Could you tie them with a yellow ribbon?” she asks, and Ben stares at her in surprise. Yellow. Not black, yellow.

“Um, sure.” He reaches out to take the flowers from her, and he notices her smile has fallen just a little.

“If you have yellow,” she adds.

“I do. I just always assume you want black.” The sweet smell of the flowers damn near smacks him with their strength as he carries the five stalks back to the counter, setting them down gentle. She follows, her heels clicking on the worn wooden floor. He should close the shop for a day or two, recoat everything… He needs to recoat behind the counter, certainly, nicks in the wood from dropping his scissors.

“Change can be good,” the woman says as she walks up, resting her hands on the counter and watching him as he gives the ends of the flowers a fresh trim.

Her fingers are so delicate, nails always so dark. Her skin looks soft, unlike Rose’s, or Finn’s. Not that there’s anything wrong with Rose’s hands, she bears her work like he does. More often than not there’s grease under her nails and he admires the callouses and expresses concern over the nicks and bandages, just like she asks him what the hell he did to his fingers whenever he forgets that thorns are a thing. Finn’s are the same, fingers covered in drawing ink and charcoal and calloused from drawing all the time.

This woman… this woman’s hands are soft, smooth. Whatever she does, it isn’t labor. He stares at her and her perfect fingers for a moment before he continues cutting the flowers. Beneath the hyacinth, he can smell her perfume. Something dark, something musky, something rich like amber and sandalwood. Earthy.

Chancing a glimpse upwards, he sees the pale, freckled skin of her breastbone, the lace neckline of her dress just kissing her cleavage. He can see the flesh… turn golden? Right before his eyes.

When he looks up, her cheeks bear the same golden tinge as her chest had. As though liquid gold runs in her veins, as though she blushes metal…

“What the fuck?” he manages to choke out.

Her amber eyes widen, and she raises a hand to her cheek, touching her fingers to the sparkling gold. Within seconds, she’s gone, sweeping the hyacinths from the counter without even letting him finish cutting the ends off. He doesn’t hear the clicking of her heels, only the ding of the door bell as it opens and she rushes off. He barely notices when an older man walks in and beelines towards the pre-made bouquets, instead staring at the woman’s billowing trenchcoat as she runs away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite little mythology tidbits is that the Greek gods bleed ichor, which is often regarded as liquid gold. I like to think that that applies to the reincarnations, as well. Which, obviously, can be slightly problematic when a God blushes in front of a human.


	5. persephone & hades.

“You’re panicking.”

“The Goddess of Death does not panic.”

Except she does.

The two goddesses are huddled under one large umbrella, watching the rain come down on the lake of Central Park. Aphrodite is wrapped in some designer trench coat, white as always, while Rey is wrapped in her own smoke-colored one. Unlike Aphrodite, she has the collar of hers popped up to cover her flushing cheeks.

“If it comes up, say it was highlighter,” Aphrodite explains, taking a sip of her coffee. They’re both holding Rey’s umbrella. Aphrodite’s fingers are warm against hers.

“Yes, because he’s going to believe that,” Rey scoffs, hearing splashing as someone runs by them, intent on keeping their fitness regimen even in the rain.

“Men know nothing about makeup. He’ll believe it.” It’s punctuated with another sip of coffee.

The goddess of love was kind and bought her a hot chocolate, but Rey hasn’t sipped it, instead letting the drink warm her chilled hands. She can’t see the buildings surrounding them, only the vaguest shadows of them. Everything is grey. Grey, and dreary.

“Do you want me to-“

“No,” Rey says, a bit more snappishly than she meant to.

Aphrodite raises one perfectly groomed brow at her, pulling back ever so slightly. The umbrella, under Rey’s silent direction, expands to follow her, keeping the goddess from getting wet. “You don’t know what I was going to ask.”

“Just because you can feel someone’s heart doesn’t mean that I want you to.” Now Rey takes a sip of her hot chocolate.

“Even if it would make you feel better?”

“What would make me feel better is if he didn’t think I was some freak the next time I walked in. I like that shop.”

“You like him.”

She can’t deny it, and so she doesn’t. Instead, she continues, “I like supporting smaller businesses. And he makes the most gorgeous bouquets.”

“Mmhmm.”

When Rey looks over to the other goddess, she just barely sees the woman’s smirk around the white coffee cup lid. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t smirk at me. You know it won’t happen. There’s another woman who comes in who’s friendly with him.”

“She’s engaged to a barista at the Union Square Starbucks,” Aphrodite says simply, licking her lips of coffee. Somehow her lipstick doesn’t budge, and Rey has to wonder if it’s magic, or simply the magic of human ingenuity.

“She doesn’t wear a ring.”

“Neither will he, once they’re wed. They both have very hands-on jobs.” Again, a sip of coffee, and that smirk.

“If I wanted you to meddle in my love life, I would have asked,” Rey snaps. Thunder rolls, and she looks up at the sky, scowling. “Oh, hush, you know I’m right.”

“I’m not meddling, I’m putting your heart at ease. There’s a difference.”

Rey stares out at the lake, the fog and rain chilling her to the bone. She shivers, feeling the goddess of love press closer in an attempt to warm her. It doesn’t ease her heart, not really. She’s messed everything up. There are no rules about gods associating with humans – if there were, Zeus would have broken every single one of them. But it’s still a very messy business, and she’s made it even more so just by blushing.

Something so simple, so innocent, and yet…

“I don’t know what to do,” she confesses quietly. She’s unsure of whether Aphrodite can hear her over the thunder and the rain, but the other goddess squeezes her hand on the handle of the umbrella.

“Buy some flowers,” Aphrodite suggests, before letting go of the umbrella and standing. Even in the disgusting weather, she radiates beauty like the sun, and Rey’s almost blinded by her. “If he asks, you put on too much highlighter.”

She tosses her coffee cup and walks off, leaving Rey sitting on the bench to watch her disappear into the grey. It takes a few moments, her white trench coat a beacon through the rain, but eventually she is gone.

Rey’s hot chocolate is cold by the time she stands, and closes the umbrella to let the rain cool her flushed cheeks.

-

Google doesn’t tell him anything.

Google suggests jaundice, and some yellow blush trend from 2017, but it doesn’t tell him anything about a girl blushing gold.

Because that’s what it was. That’s exactly what it was. He knows it wasn’t highlighter or glitter or whatever people are putting on their faces nowadays. No. One moment her skin looked as normal as his own, and then the next second she was shining like a sunbeam. Like her blood was made out of liquid gold, blinding in her brightness.

He’s sure that’s what he saw. He’d put money on it, even as little as he has in his bank account. Even as he stands in the shower and lets the water beat down against his bare shoulders, even as he brushes his teeth, he’s thinking of golden skin. Not tan, no, but purely golden. That’s what it was.

He can barely taste the Chinese food he orders, tasting salt and that’s about it. The TV is saying something, he can see the talk show host’s lips moving, but he’s only half listening. No, not even a half, probably a quarter listening.

This woman comes in almost every week. Dressed in black each time. Sometimes with her dog, sometimes not. She buys flowers. She’s only bought one plant. She doesn’t have a favorite flower, not that he’s noticed. It’s not like she asks for the same thing every time. She asks for what’s new, what’s left over. She’s not like Rose, she doesn’t gravitate towards the broken and the bruised and the bent flowers. Instead she moves towards the newest, the freshest, the ones that will go to waste otherwise because the wedding was canceled or the recipient didn’t last through the night or the couple broke up.

Rose gravitates towards the ones that, through nature’s cruelty, have made their own despair. The woman gravitates towards the ones who have been left behind by despair miles away.

Or he’s thinking way too much into it and she just likes whatever’s freshest because she likes new things.

The afternoon rain has made everything sort of damp and musty. His building is old, but he likes it. He likes Maz, his landlady, and he likes the close vicinity to his shop. It means he only has to take one stop on the Q train, and that’s it. It’s unheard of, really, and that’s why there is no way in hell he’s moving unless it’s to the same block his shop is on.

It’s rare that the rain washes away the smell of smog and trash, but he opens one of his windows anyway. Immediately he’s assaulted by humidity, and as he looks out towards the city, he can see fog covering the lower buildings. The skyscrapers emerge from it like clouds, and he can see gleaming headlights and hear the honks of cars as people head home.

This is New York. If there’s one thing that he’s learned in his years of living here, it’s that weird shit happens.

And a woman blushing gold certainly isn’t the weirdest he’s seen.

After all, there has to be some logical explanation, right?

-

Just because she’s technically dead doesn’t mean she can’t eat or drink. She drinks hot chocolate with Aphrodite on a weekly basis, now, and so she can treat herself to a nice meal every once in a while, right?

The restaurant is warm and homey, with warm Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling and large candles flickering on the reclaimed tables. Sure, it’s a little hipster, but it means that the place is busy and the warmth of the souls around her keeps her from getting too chilled. Shadow drapes off of her body in the form of a black cocktail dress, draping in its design and baring her freckled back to the rest of the dining room. Her table is tucked in the corner, and she sips on red wine as she waits for her appetizer.

She died a beggar, asking for coins and scraps of food. Now that she’s the Goddess of Death, she’s going to indulge in all she can. And indulging in all she can includes ordering a very expensive truffle parmesan ravioli.

Her realm is deep in the earth. She wonders if that’s why she likes the flavor of truffle.

She’s sipping on her wine as she looks over her shoulder, keeping an eye out for her food. She stills as she sees a head of familiar black hair, soft-looking and turned up at the edges—

“I don’t think he’s coming.”

“He told me he was.”

“He told you he was coming last time, too, and then he didn’t show up.”

The girl from the flower shop, the one who takes home the flowers with broken stems and strange patterns, is sitting at one of the high top tables with two other men. In the low light, she barely sees the shine of a diamond ring on the woman’s hand. It’s only when the table’s candle flickers that she sees the light dance off of the facets, and she stills.

There’s a young man with her, with dark skin and warm eyes and full lips. They’re holding hands. The other man with her is older, with grey at his temples. He moves ever so slightly, shifting on his chair, and even though she’s far away, she smells sandalwood. Tragedy, she thinks. He’s had his fair share of it.

Rey watches, her wine still in her hand as she tries to hear what they’re saying. The shadows of the restaurant bend and undulate to her will, and she’s grateful there are a lot of them. The shadows carry their words to her like loyal servants, and she hears the name Ben as well as something of an event being three months away.

The wedding, she deduces, from the woman’s smile and the way the younger man squeezes her hand.

“Sorry I’m late.”

There is seeing the man in a black t-shirt and a leather apron, and there is seeing the man in a white t-shirt and black blazer. She stills, not even noticing the waiter as he slides the pasta in front of her. She stares, watching as the flower shop owner – no, Ben - leans in to kiss the woman’s cheek, the other men sharing in cheek kisses as well. Friendly. Soft. Warm.

Something she hasn’t had in a very long time, at least not from anyone who isn’t Aphrodite.

Ben is large. He barely fits at the small high top. He squishes himself onto the industrial-looking metal stool, keeping his hands on the table but nothing else. Even his hands are massive in a way she hasn’t noticed before, because he’s so gentle with the flowers he cares for. To see them cradle a glass of Scotch is something else entirely.

She’s grateful for the intensity of the truffle pasta, because the earthy flavor knocks her down to, well, earth. She resists the urge to look up and watch them, but she comes to recognize the laughter of the older man, the one with grey at his temples. Poe, she learns quickly. The younger man’s name is Finn.

Eventually she stops calling on shadow to help her hear, and she enjoys her meal instead. It feels wrong to eavesdrop, and they go from talking about Ben's day to talking about what still needs to be done for the wedding. As night falls and the lights lower, she tries and somewhat succeeds in keeping her gaze on her lamb instead of Ben.

 _Somewhat succeeds_  is the key phrase. Because there’s something about the way the Edison bulbs and their warm light glows off of the shine of his hair—

She’s not pining. No. She can’t pine. Because it can't happen. Every Hades has a Persephone, yes, but she's not the typical Hades. 

She pays with cash, as she always does with everything, before getting up. Shadow from underneath the table comes to her hand, forming a clutch to match the black of her dress. The restaurant is more crowded now, especially where the bar is – especially where they are sitting. She tilts her body this way and that, giving soft apologies to people she bumps into.

She says the last one perhaps a bit louder than strictly necessary, offering a smile as well before looking back towards the door. As she does so, she meets the eyes of the man she was trying to avoid.

Ben’s staring at her, his earth-warm eyes wide. Despite the clench of her heart in her chest, she keeps his gaze, her smile falling ever so slightly as she pushes past.

“Sorry,” she says. Thanks to the tightness of the restaurant, her shoulder brushes against his. She can feel his human warmth, and is damn near knocked breathless by it.

As soon as she’s past him, she’s free. She barely hears the hostess bidding her a goodnight before she’s out on the streets again, trying to keep her heart from beating out from the safety of her ribcage. Most nights she wanders, walking through parks and trying to see the stars amongst the city lights. But not tonight.

Tonight she finds the nearest alleyway and disappears into the shadow, trying to calm her uneasy heart by retreating to what she knows best. The land where no life, or love, can survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rey's dress is based off of one that I own and love (IT HAS REALLY DEEP POCKETS!) and the restaurant is also based off of one I went to in New York. Except I can't remember the name of it. Which is a serious bummer because their cocktails were sooooo good.


	6. hades & persephone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because you all voted Ben to be the one who cooks on Twitter despite my heartbreaking Rey headcanon, here, have some Ben cooking. (Also - seriously??!?! 92%??! Why don't you want Rey to cook??)

With the position of Hades, she gained a kingdom. She gained a palace, with obsidian and marble and gems aplenty. She gained a loyal pet in Cerberus, the pup always vying for her attention. And she gained advisors, the three judges of souls continually offering their guidance and support.

Even when she doesn’t exactly want it.

“You’ve been spending more time than usual in the upper world.”

While the gods may be reincarnated, the demigods are not. Aeacus is the same as he has been for millennia, now, and though he hasn’t physically aged, his eyes reflect the thousands of years and billions of souls he’s seen, and judged.

“I have been,” Rey confesses, pouring fresh water from a bottle into one of the vases. It won’t make a difference, the roses are already browning and crumbling, but it makes her feel like she’s doing something at the very least. “Is it an issue? Do I need to be here more?”

“On the contrary, I would like you to spend more time with him.”

Her hand jerks, and Evian water spills out onto the marble end table. Rey curses under her breath. Shadow may cover her, but the ‘cloth’ is shit at absorbing anything, and so she leaves the puddle on the stone surface. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“Aphrodite hasn’t been down here, has she?”

“Would she have a reason to be?”

She turns, seeing the sparkle of mirth in the old man’s eyes. Rey scoffs, grabbing the water bottle and its cap before moving on to the next table in her grand hall. “No, of course not.”

Their feet are silent, but she can hear the swish of his robes as he moves behind her. “Every Hades has had a Persephone.”

“So I’ve been told.” These lilies are already dead and gone, and so she tugs them from the vase. She’ll pour the water out later. “But I don’t need one.”

He says nothing to that. Instead, he watches as she fills her arms with dead flowers. Later, she will dump the foul water out into one of her rivers, and watch as it mixes with the memories of the dead.

-

Aeacus is right. She is spending more time in the upper world. But contrary to his belief, she isn’t spending the entirety of it at the flower shop. No matter how many times she’s been to the Met, there’s always something new to see. Sometimes it’s a new exhibit, yes. But she spends her time looking for new cracks in a statue, or new discoloration in a painting. Morbid though it may be, there is comfort in the idea that everything ages and decays. Nothing lasts forever. She knows this better than anyone.

There are a few school groups and tourists today. ‘Wet floor’ signs are seemingly everywhere, their neon yellow color contrasting garishly with the marble and iron statues in the Greek and Roman art exhibit. There’s the constant hum of conversation, the mutterings of tourists and the too-loud voices if the tour guides. Rey holds herself, her arms wrapped around her as she walks through the hall.

Past reincarnations stare at her with lifeless eyes. Some she knows are based on reality. There were a handful of reincarnations that liked to show themselves, Zeus in particular. The newest Zeus is a man with dark skin and a grey beard, his voice low and rolling like thunder. Like Aphrodite, he claims that the god’s mistakes are of past reincarnations, and he has no intent to repeat them.

Her cigarette heels click against the marble floors, her gaze slipping from one statue to the next. There are weapons, there is jewelry, there are artifacts from a lifetime very much past. And still there is warmth in here, to her. There is familiarity.

It’s pouring by the time she walks out of the museum. To the mortals around her, her coat has always had a hood. In actuality, she pulls the shadows from the darkness of a closed restaurant. They come to protect her from the rain, and offer her a dark sanctuary as she makes her way down the street. She keeps her head bowed, stepping out of the way of splashing children and people trying in vain to keep from getting soaked. Dirty rainwater splashes her bare ankles, but she lets it.

For once, she lets herself feel human. For just a few heartbeats, she lets herself feel.

-

The Underworld smells like… to be entirely honest, a strange mix of things. Like the living, souls smell of different deaths. Most of the time, the scents stay where they should be, in Asphodel. But sometimes, when the world above is getting hammered with Zeus’s wet wrath, the scents swirl and mix and she gags when she returns to her realm.

It’s why she likes flowers. Because she much prefers her palace smelling of roses and hyacinths instead of putrid sweat and rotting garlic. But after avoiding the flower shop (yes, she knows there are others, but she’s loyal and always has been) she has no choice but to fill the palace with different scents.

The sweet smell of vanilla wafts up from the mixer, flour staining the shadow of her dress. One of the former Hades had enjoyed cooking, and so within the ornate palace there is a kitchen worthy of a restaurant, with fridges aplenty and enough ovens to serve a feast. Rumor has it he had a handful of Persephones. Rey can’t imagine why he would need so much space otherwise. No one eats down here. Or, at the very least, they don’t have to.

She scrapes the seeds of a vanilla bean pod into the mixture, watching as the batter becomes speckled with little black dots. Sugar, flour, butter, vanilla… they all come together and banish the smell of death from her kitchen. She’s not a perfect baker, no, but she’s getting better. At least, she thinks she is.

Cerberus, three noses smelling something sweet, pads into the kitchen. His nails click on the obsidian floor, and Rey smiles, kneeling and rubbing two of the pup’s heads. The third whines pitifully, and she chuckles, bending to kiss the brow of the third.

“I only have two hands, sweet thing,” she chides before she turns to slip the cookies into the oven. They’re not the most sophisticated, treat, no, but they did the job of making her palace smell like a bakery instead of, well, a palace in the Underworld.

The shortbread cookie melts on her tongue as she wanders through her gardens, the guard dog at her side. Pomegranate trees are the only living thing, a gift from the first Persephone in honor of the fruit that tied her to her beloved husband. Their fruits hang like lanterns from withered, gnarled branches. When she was first Hades, they were all she ate. Her fingers were stained purple and wrinkled with their juice, and her lips were plush and plump from the tartness. Now she can barely stand to look at them. One Hades turned it into a business, so she heard, making pomegranate liqueur.

A Hades so inventive as to turn the pomegranates of the Underworld into a business. A Hades so passionate and charming that he had multiple Persephones. A Hades so famed that his story is taught all over the world, used as inspiration for storytellers and artists throughout the ages. A Hades so creative that he used the gems of the realm in jewelry, becoming famous for his designs that were worn around the necks and upon the heads of royalty…

Rey kicks a ruby out of the way, biting savagely into the warm cookie. Cerberus chases the shiny rock, one of his heads grabbing the gem and the other two whining in defeat. The pup has always been terrible at fetch, rushing back to her but refusing to drop the gem into her hand. She doesn’t mind, letting him dart back and forth in front of her, his tail wagging happily.

What will she be known for? Killing everything she touches?

The cookie tastes stale and almost bitter, and she swallows the last dry bite as she watches Cerberus play with the gem.

The first Hades without a Persephone, she thinks, shadow coming to cover her arms as a chill rushes through her veins and heart. That’s what she will be known for.

-

It’s been raining a lot recently. He doesn’t mind, quite the contrary. Rain means that he doesn’t have to water the plants on his little fire escape. Rain means that he can watch them grow through the tiny window, and he can reach for some fresh basil leaves. He shakes the sweet raindrops off of them before carrying them inside. He used to leave the leaves whole, but after some time, he discovered that chopping them up is better for this dish.

The caprese lasagna is layered with ricotta and tomato sauce, fresh mozzarella from the store down the street and fresh tomatoes from the farmer’s market. He’s careful to layer them in between fresh pasta, sprinkling salt and pepper as he goes. Basil is tenderly laid across the ricotta, before he covers the entire thing in parmesan and pops it in the oven. Garlic bread is next, fresh butter spread across a loaf from the bakery across the street from his shop. Never garlic powder, no, he uses fresh minced garlic and fresh parsley from the fire escape—

_Bzzt, bzzt, bzzt_

“Has she come in?”

“Not for a week,” Ben offers, bracing the phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he sprinkles parmesan on the garlic bread.

Rose sighs on the other line. “You’re sure you saw her at the restaurant?”

“Positive. I’d bet every dime I make next week on it.”

He doesn’t mean to sound so damn melancholy, but he doesn’t really get regulars. There are the few he sees a handful of times a year, specifically around Valentine’s Day and anniversaries. But aside from Rose, there’s just her. The woman in black. The woman with the dog. The woman who somehow manages to blush gold.

God, he wished he had something else to call her.

“I’m sorry, Ben.”

It’s okay, he should say. It’s not your fault, he should say. But instead all that comes out is a forlorn, “Me too,” as he sets the block of cheese aside and opens the oven to slide the bread in.

Because he is. It has to be his fault, right? It has to be. Why else would she have snuck by him instead of greeting him in the restaurant? Why else would she have bowed her pretty head and left?

It’s his fault, he’s sure of it.

He just wishes he knew what the hell he did wrong.


	7. hades & persephone.

She can’t remember the last time she wore actual clothes.

It’s easy with shadows. Everything falls just right. There are no zippers to worry about, no buttons to pop open or come undone, no hooks to contort herself to reach, no bows to tie. It just sort of happens. She thinks about pants, and she has pants. Add a belt, add a few rips, or change the leg shape, whatever. It’s simple. It’s easy. It’s quick.

It’s slightly depressing, because shadow only comes in black and grey, but black is always in style in some way or another, right?

Rey’s not used to looking down and seeing pale blue chambray. She’s not used to walking in sandals. She much prefers her cigarette heels, but the sun and the warmth of the spring day has her feet slapping against the sidewalks in flat sandals.

She feels short. She feels human.

At the very least she’s wearing a leather jacket, the shadow molding to her shoulders perfectly. Is it a security blanket, a safety measure, an armor of sorts? Perhaps. But she needs it as she approaches the small flower shop, taking a breath to calm her hammering heart as she steps inside.

The bell dings cheerily, and somewhere in the back she hears Ben yell, “I’ll be right with you!”

“It’s all right!” she calls back, her voice catching halfway through ‘right’.

“Blue’s a good color on you!”

Rey spins around, narrowly missing banging the hell out of her hip on one of the table corners. Wide-eyed, she sees the girl who’s usually in here the same time she is, the one who takes home the unwanted flowers, the one from the restaurant. Forcing a smile, Rey looks down at the dress. It was simple, and cheap, and while the waist might not be exactly in the right spot, it’s cute.

“You think?” she can’t help but ask, reaching down and rubbing the fabric of the skirt with her fingers. Even though it’s soft, it still feels like sandpaper compared to her shadow. “I haven’t worn color in a while.”

“It’s adorable,” the other girl replies, before she’s smiling and stepping forward and offering her hand and Rey has to resist the urge to take a giant step back just to avoid the awkwardness of actually meeting someone with life in their veins. “I’m Rose, by the way. I’ve seen you in here a lot?”

“Rey,” Rey finds herself saying, shocked at how easily her past name comes to her lips. She never uses it, not really. She uses it for restaurant reservations, for the most part, because no one would reserve a table for ‘Hades’.

“Rey,” Rose repeats, and Rey wonders whether the other girl’s smile would light up the Underworld. It would certainly be worth a try. “It’s nice to meet you, Rey.”

Rey’s opening her mouth to reply, “Likewise,” or something of that sort when there’s a thud, and an “Ow!”

“What did you do?” Rose asks at the same time Rey calls, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine!”

His laughter is soft. Sweet. Awkward. She can feel herself flush, and she’s very glad for the tinted moisturizer she tapped onto her skin before approaching the shop. She hopes to the Underworld and back it’s enough to cover the gold, or at least make it looks more like a product instead of …. Well, her.

Ben’s rubbing his head when he emerges, his smile bashful. At least, it is until he sees her. And then it drops.

“Hi.” It’s almost a breath, so soft Rey barely catches it.

“Hi,” she breathes right back and oh, fuck, she’s missed him. Missed seeing him, missed smelling him. Sandalwood and cigarette smoke and sun invade her nose, clouding her head and making it hard to breathe.

“I was just telling Rey that she looks good in blue,” Rose says, and Rey’s not entirely sure whether she wants to thank the woman or smack her.

“She does,” Ben replies immediately, and she can feel her cheeks flushing hotly.

“I just … I just came to get some roses,” Rey tries, looking over towards… the bonsais. Right. The roses are behind her. “Just a dozen or so.”

“Right,” Ben says, and then he’s stepping towards her and the smell gets stronger and she’s hoping beyond hope and praying to all the other gods that she doesn’t look like one of those living statues with how much she’s blushing. “What color?”

“Pink.”

“Rey!”

Rey turns as Rose calls her name, and out of the corner of her eye she can see Ben turn as well. “Yes?”

“Are you free tonight?” Rose asks.

“I-“ Rey tries at the same time Ben says, “Rose,” his voice oddly strangled.

“We told the restaurant four, and Poe texted me and said he couldn’t come. I don’t want to be rude. Do you want to come with us?”

“Rose,” Ben tries again, voice still that same strangled sound.

“It’s this great little place called Tom’s, but it fills up quickly. They have amazing cocktails, and lots of small plates to share, if that’s your kind of thing,” Rose continues, full steam ahead and so eager Rey’s overwhelmed by it, her fingers finding the zipper of her jacket. Within seconds there’s a small leather strap attached to it, something she can fiddle with as the other woman starts to talk about something to do with cheese puffs.

“What time?”

The words tumble from her lips before she can even think to stop them, and once again Rose’s smile feels like sunshine against Rey’s skin. How long has it been since someone smiled at her that just a grin makes her giddy?

“How does 7 sound?” Rose sounds like a child, excited for their birthday, and Rey can't help but smile in return.

“I’ll be there.”

 

-

 

The shop bell dings as the girl, the woman – Rey – leaves. Ben stares at her for a moment longer, how the chambray clings to her, before there’s a punch to his shoulder.

“Ow!” he hisses, looking down at Rose and glaring down at her. “What was that for?”

“I asked her out for you. The least you can do is thank me. The most you can do is shower me in praises and bow before me,” Rose insists, reaching for an orchid and examining its petals.

“You didn’t ask her out for me, you invited her to dinner with us. That’s not a date,” Ben protests, even though he can feel his cheeks flaming. He tucks his scissors into his apron, and grabs his spray bottle. “And she’s probably not even interested.”

“Oh, come on, Ben. She’s gone for a week and then comes back with a new dress? She’s totally into you.”

“Rose,” Ben warns.

“Just come to dinner. Get to know her outside of what her favorite flower is, please?”

“She doesn’t have a favorite,” Ben mutters as he gives some succulents some attention, reaching up to spray some of the hanging plants. He really should hang them higher. He’s pretty damn sure he’s going to have a duck egg from the one hanging in the back.

“Then get to know something about her aside from her plant preferences. Or anything regarding anything with petals or leaves or stems. Honestly, Ben.”

Ben sighs a little, knowing he should thank her for her efforts. And so he does. “Thank you, Rose.”

“You’re welcome. I’m taking this one.”

He doesn’t even charge her for it, letting her take the little yellow tulip that didn’t grow quite as smoothly as its siblings, its petals a little crooked and a little ruffled. She goes down the street in a flurry of mustard yellow and bright optimism, and maybe just a smidge of evil genius. Ben watches her until she disappears, before he picks up his spray bottle again.

His hand shakes a little as he waters the plants, but none of his other customers notice, and for that he’s grateful.

 

-

 

“It’s not a date.”

Aphrodite’s voice is kind and sweet, her hand soft on Rey’s as they sit in Union Square. Rey’s trying to focus on the scents of the people around her instead of the butterflies inside of her stomach, because otherwise she fears she’s going to be sick.

“I don’t know people,” she insists, turning and looking at the other woman. “I haven’t interacted with them in years, aside from Ben. What do I say when they ask me where I work? What do I say when they ask me where I’m from? I don’t know any of it, I-“

“You’re a therapist who works specifically with the deaths of loved ones,” Aphrodite replies simply. “You’ve lived in New York all your life. Or you can say where you’re truly from, if you remember.”

She doesn’t.

Rey turns, watching people walk by. Each with their own beating hearts, each with their own stories, each with their own triumphs and tragedies. And she has to make up her own within the next few hours.

Aphrodite’s hand comes to her knee, delicate fingers stroking the side of it, perfectly manicured as always. Rey looks down, watching as the goddess continues to stroke her skin. Tender. Loving. Calming.

“If they ask you something you’re uncomfortable with, it’s all right to say that you’re not comfortable answering it,” Aphrodite promises. “They are kind, and full of love for each other.”

“I wish you wouldn’t stalk them.”

“It’s not stalking, it’s called researching for a friend,” the goddess insists.

“Of course it is.”

She doesn’t mean to sound bitter. But she feels Aphrodite’s fingers still on her knee, and then there’s the slightest press, the gentlest squeeze, and she sighs.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. There was never a way for it to go at all, if she’s entirely honest. She wasn’t supposed to blush, she wasn’t supposed to get attached, she wasn’t supposed to attract the attention of anyone, let alone the girl in the flower shop who picks up lonely and unloved—

_Oh._

“Rey,” Aphrodite says, her voice gentle and sweet. “Your closest friends are a goddess, three men who have been dead for thousands of years, and a three-headed dog.”

It’s pathetic. And she knows that very, very well. The rest of the gods intermingle with humans all the time. It’s changed throughout the years, what they are and aren’t allowed to do. Before gods used to either fuck or fuck with humans, but with the new reincarnations, the ones whose hearts used to beat as a human’s did, there’s been some readjusting.

Apollo makes his way around, Rey knows, with both humans and demigods. His smile is warm like the sun, more than likely a job requirement for being the sun god, and though Rey felt her chest warm when he turned his attention to her, she declined and he’s become a good but distant friend since. She has to wonder if humans feel the same warmth when he smiles, too.

Artemis can be found wandering the streets of small towns all over the world, smiling and flirting with the beautiful girls who live there. She becomes overwhelmed with cities, much preferring the small villages where there is still green, she’d told Rey the last summit up in Olympus. She was a slight thing with a face like a fox and chestnut hair and a laugh like a summer breeze.

Zeus and Hera are stronger than the myths have portrayed them to be, or at least these reincarnations are. Still, Rey hears rumors about men and women being invited to their sprawling Greek villa, spending a week there with wine and laughter and pleasure.

Times have changed, regarding humans.

But that doesn’t mean that she’s terribly eager to leap back into the land of the living.

She knows what loss is. And she’d rather not have to encounter it.

“One dinner,” Aphrodite says, as though reading her thoughts. “One dinner, and then you can stay with me in Paris for a few days if it fails spectacularly. How does that sound? They have beautiful flowers there. All sorts of colors and sizes. I’d love to have you.”

 _But would they be sold by a beautiful man who reeks of death?_ Rey wants to ask, but she says nothing.

A tube of lipstick is pressed into her hand by the goddess, sleek and golden. And then there’s a press to her cheek, and Rey closes her eyes at the gentle affection, knowing that there will be a mark when the goddess pulls away.

“You need a little color,” Aphrodite says. “I’ll be in touch.”

She disappears into the crowd, the gauzy white of her blouse blending in with the tents of the farmer’s market. Rey watches her go, looking effortlessly beautiful as always, before looking back down at the lipstick. Pulling the cap off, she twists it up, seeing a natural, rosy pink gleaming back at her.

How very romantic.

She has to give at least a little smile as she stands, heading towards two buildings where the alleyway is reasonably dark.

She needs to walk Cerberus before dinner.

The dinner that is not a date.


End file.
